


stay with me eternally (or at least until this ends)

by humanveil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Infidelity, M/M, Pining, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-06 20:31:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12218409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: c. 1979. While everything teeters on the edge of going to shit, James and Sirius take a three-day trip together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Infidelity warning refers to James/Lily, though it could also refer to Remus/Sirius if you want to see it that way.

 

_you’re in a car with a beautiful boy,_  
_and he won’t tell you that he loves you,_  
_but[he loves you](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/17/you-are-jeff-crush-by-richard-siken/)._

*******

**day one.**

_Drive North. Find Peterson. No magic._

Simple, really.

“You first, or me?”

Except, of course it isn’t.

Sirius looks at James over the hood of the car—rented, inconspicuous, looks like it’ll fall apart if they touch it too hard—and shrugs. “You.”

James is closer to the driver’s seat, Sirius reasons. And he’s got the keys in his hand. It makes sense for him to drive first. James nods, opening the door and slipping inside, and Sirius finishes chucking their bags in the back before joining him.

“Like the old days, eh?” The car’s engine rumbles as James turns the key, and Sirius can’t help the way he stares, transfixed by the curve of James’ fingers, by the way his hand ligaments ripple beneath his flesh when he takes hold of the steering wheel.

_The old days._

If only, Sirius thinks.

*

The radio is broken, because of course.

They run out of things to talk about an hour in, or maybe they just stop trying. It never used to be like this, Sirius thinks, but he finds himself thinking that a lot, lately, so he supposes it doesn’t fucking matter what it used to be like.

 _Stop living in the past_ , is what Remus always tells him, and. Fuck. If Sirius isn’t trying.

“Wanna swap?” he asks, because the silence is suffocating, because it leaves him alone with his thoughts, and with nothing else here to distract him, that’s not something Sirius wants.

“Nah.” James tears his eyes away from the empty road to look at him, and there’s a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth, and Sirius can’t help but wonder if this is easy for him.

He doesn’t understand how it could be.

*

They switch over three hours in.

Sirius is thankful to have something new to do with his hands, because up until now he’s been picking at non-existent lint, been tapping on the sun faded surface of the car. He’d tried not to watch James too much, but. Fuck. At least he’d tried.

James, at least, hadn’t seemed to notice.

_Or perhaps he just doesn’t care._

“Whatd’ya reckon?” James says, and he’s got his head thrown back, resting against the seat, and he’s got the first few buttons of his shirt undone, and Sirius can see sweat shining on his skin in the sunlight. It’s almost as bright as the gleam of James’ wedding ring. “Stop once it gets dark?”

Sirius looks to the skyline. It’s still light—the sky an almost uncharacteristic blue, the sun bright and beaming and too warm—but they will have to stop eventually, he thinks. “Motel or car?”

James spares a glance to back seat, eyes the bags that cover it, the leather jacket that’s thrown over them. “Motel.”

*

One bed.

Because _of course._

 _Not enough rooms,_ the clerk had told them, and Sirius thinks that he probably should have fucking saw it coming. The door shuts behind them with a quiet bang, and James announces that he calls the first shower, and so Sirius moves to the bed, dumps his bag on the covers as the sound of running water filters in from the next room. He rummages around for something to sleep in—will shower in the morning, to wake himself up—and pulls on a thin shirt, night pants. There’s a bottle of whiskey in the bag, a pack of smokes, too, and he pulls them both out, cracks open the window, and lights the cigarette before settling on the bed’s edge.

When James emerges from the bathroom, all he’s got on is a pair of pants. His chest is bare, his skin tanned, his torso defined by lines of muscle, and Sirius can fucking see it—can see when they were sixteen, when they did this, before, when it was the Potter’s house, not some dingy, dirty little motel, when James came over and pushed him down on the bed, when he took the cigarette from his hand and replaced the bitter taste of tobacco with the sweetness of his mouth.

_The old days._

Now—Now James just sits on the other side of the bed. His hand runs through his hair, and Sirius can see beads of water drip from the wet locks. They trickle down the side of his face, pool together at the spot where his neck meets his jaw. Sirius used to love kissing that spot, he remembers.

James had used to love it, too.


	2. Chapter 2

_you’re in a car with a beautiful boy,_ _and_  
_you’re trying not to tell him that you love_  
_him,_ _and you’re trying to_ _choke down_  
[_t_ _he feeling_](http://library.globalchalet.net/Authors/Poetry%20Books%20Collection/Richard%20Siken%20-%20Crush%20\(Yale%20Series%20of%20Younger%20Poets\).pdf)

*******

**day two.**

Sirius wakes to a palm pressed flat on his stomach.

His shirt has ridden up, the fabric bunched around his waist, and James’ fingertips brush the edge of it, his hand resting above the dip of Sirius’ belly button. The touch is feather light, the skin warm and soft. Sirius can feel the callouses of James’ hands—few, but there—and it’s comforting, somehow.

He can also feel the smooth curve of a ring.

It’s cold. Nauseating, instead of comforting. It’s not that he hates Lily—she’s fine, great, even—it’s that he still thinks it could have been him.

At least, he’d wanted it to be.

A soft glow comes in through the room’s window, the sky outside still half cast in darkness, and in it, Sirius stares at James. He stares at the long eyelashes that fan across his cheeks, at the strands of messy black hair that flop across his forehead, at the way his lips remain parted in sleep. He looks beautiful, Sirius thinks, and it fucking aches. It aches to be able to sit there and look, to be able to stare, to be able to _touch_. Aches because it only ever reminds him of what was, what could have been, what he knows will never be.

The body next to him stirs, and Sirius barely has time to think before big, brown eyes are wide and open and staring directly at him. It’s too late to look away, so he stares back, doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything.

And then, James grins.

“When’d you start waking early?” is what he says, and his voice is low and hoarse with sleep, and his hand is still on Sirius’ stomach, and he’s looking up at Sirius with his head bent back, and Sirius can see the bob of his throat when he swallows, can feel the heat of his body beneath the blanket.

“It happens,” he says, and he tries to match the joke in James’ voice, but he’s pretty sure he falls short. Pretty sure it’s obvious.

“Never used to,” James mumbles, and Sirius wants to groan at that, because he _knows_ he never used to. Knows that some days the only thing that ever got him out of bed before noon was James’ incessant kissing and the promise of a reward.

He shrugs, because he can’t think of anything to say to that, and moves to get off the bed. He’s stopped by an arm winding around his torso, by James’ hand moving to rest on the curve of his waist.

“Still dark,” James mumbles, and he’s closer now, close enough that Sirius can feel his breath against his neck, that he can feel the rise and fall of his chest. “We’ve got time.”

“Time?” Sirius asks, and his voice is too quiet. He barely dares to breathe. James can’t mean—

“To sleep,” James says, and Sirius isn’t sure if he’s more relieved or frustrated.

He puts his hand over James’, moves it off him with a quick touch. “Not tired,” he says, and starts toward the shower before James can stop him.

*

Sirius takes the first driving shift.

He drives with the windows down, lets the cool wind filter in, lets it blow through his hair. He’s always liked this, liked the refreshing feel of it. It’s part of why he’d bought his bike.

“Think you’re more dog than human, sometimes,” James says from his spot next to him, smiling wide enough that Sirius catches a glimpse of the crinkles around his eyes. He’s been watching him, Sirius knows. He’d felt it.

“Wouldn’t be so bad,” Sirius tells him, and this is nice, he thinks. The awkwardness of the morning is gone, and it’s normal. It feels like _them_ again.

He sneaks a glance out the corner of his eye, sees the smile still planted on James’ face. He has to bite back his own—has to choke down the ache of being this close and being unable to touch, the almost overwhelming desire to reach out and _take._

He doesn’t want to make it weird, he thinks.

More than it already is, at least.

*

Peterson, as it turns out, is some eighty-year-old bloke who looks like his mother’s old house elf. He lets them into his house reluctantly, all the while muttering about Dumbledore’s meddling, and Sirius can’t stop the annoyed huff that leaves his mouth as he takes the offered seat.

James does most of the talking, after that. Sirius listens, joining when he must, and it’s a good thing that he and James are both charming, he thinks, otherwise they likely would’ve ended up thrown out on their arses.

They get what they need eventually—some old bloody book on the afterlife, the cover ripped and worn and the pages filled with an unintelligible script—and then they’re back in the car, driving the same way they came.

“Seems like a lot of effort for a book,” James says, once they’ve pulled out of the driveway. He’s got it open in his lap, his fingers carefully flipping through the pages. “What’s Dumbledore want with it?”

“‘Dunno,” Sirius says, winding the window down to blow smoke out. “Didn’t say. Just said to find you and get it.”

James hums, giving the book one last glance before letting it fall shut and chucking it in the back. He reclines in the passenger’s seat, gaze fixed on the bush outside. “Strange,” he says, and Sirius can only shrug.

He hadn’t really thought about it. He’d agreed to go right after Dumbledore had mentioned James.

*

They get back to the motel just after the sun has set. They probably should have kept going, Sirius thinks, only he hadn’t wanted to. Driving without magic is much more tedious than he remembers it being, and all he wants it a soft bed and a proper meal.

As it is, all they’ve got is dodgy roadside food and enough alcohol to black them both out for the night. James cracks a bottle open once they get inside—the same room as the night before—and Sirius watches him plop down on the one bed.

“C’mon,” James says. He’s holding the bottle out to Sirius, looking at him expectantly. “Nothing better to do.”

Sirius takes it, swallows the bitter liquid down, and that’s how the night passes—a bottle shared back and forth, passed around until it’s empty, until they’re both lying on their backs, faces pointed to the ceiling, a cigarette shared between the two of them.

It’s familiar, Sirius can’t help but think. Achingly familiar. This is what they’d been doing before their first kiss, he recalls, before their first a lot of things.

He looks at James, now. Remembers how one kiss had turned to another, which had turned to another, and another after that. They’d only stopped when they hadn’t been able to breathe. James’ cheeks had been pink, Sirius recalls. His own, too.

He can still see the look James had given him right before he’d pounced—the absolute, incandescent heat that had been burning in his eyes right before he’d pushed Sirius down on the bed, right before he’d covered Sirius’ body with his own.

Sirius can’t tell if it’s a blessing or a curse.

Maybe it’s the alcohol that makes him do it, or maybe it’s the fact that James is looking at him like he’d looked at him back then, but Sirius opens his mouth, says, “Do you remember—”

That’s as far as he gets before he cuts himself off. He isn’t sure how to word it, isn’t sure if he should even say it. James is _married_ , he tells himself. Happily married. He doesn’t need reminders of what was likely only a teenage experiment to him, no matter how much it meant to Sirius.

James is looking at him, brow furrowed with confusion as he waits for the end of his question. “Remember what?”

Sirius swallows, stares. “Nah,” he says eventually, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

He isn’t quite sure if James would remember, anyway. And even if he did—there’s nothing to prove that he’d want to.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! This chapter has actually been done for a while—I just forgot to post the draft bc I’m an idiot. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you like it!

_he reaches over and he touches you,_  
_like a prayer for which no words exist,_  
_and you feel your heart taking root_  
[in your body](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/17/you-are-jeff-crush-by-richard-siken/)

*******

**day three.**

This time, Sirius wakes to the tickle of hot breath against his ear—to the steady, rhythmic sound of another person’s breathing; too loud, too close.

He blinks himself awake, eyelashes fluttering against the dip of his cheeks, and when his eyes finally open, James is _right_ there. He’s right there—closer than he had been the night before, his body pressed up right against Sirius’, and when Sirius turns to look at him, there’s barely an inch between their faces.

James is awake, though, so he’s doing it on purpose. Sirius doesn’t know why he would be, but it makes the pit of his stomach churn with something that sits between excitement and apprehension, makes his body much more alert than it had been a moment ago.

He opens his mouth, starts to ask what the fuck he’s doing, but James cuts him off before he can so much as say _what_.

“I remember,” James says, and it’s hot and breathy and it ghosts across Sirius’ face. It’s said quietly—too quiet, really, the words less than a whisper—but it sounds loud to Sirius. Sounds deafening.

“What?”

“I remember,” James repeats, and there’s something odd about his voice, Sirius thinks. Something hot and desperate and— “You think I could forget?”

— _oh._

Sirius stares, almost not wanting to believe him, but James’ face is open; unguarded. There’s not a hint of falsity there, instead, there’s honesty—a ferocious sort of truth that makes Sirius’ stomach flip, that makes his mouth go dry.

He wants to ask James why—why didn’t he say anything, why did he let it go, why did he let it end the way it did—but nothing comes out. Nothing comes out, and then James’ mouth is covering his, anyway; is kissing away every _what_ and _why_ and _how._

Sirius is shocked still for a moment, but then he’s kissing back with years’ worth of want, is letting his frustration pour out in kisses; is letting every night spent awake and upset be seen in the scratch of his nails against James’ body, in the sharp bites of his teeth. It’s not perfect—James’ mouth tastes like stale alcohol, and he’s certain his isn’t much better—but it’s something he’s wanted so much, for so long, that Sirius doesn’t give a singly flying fuck.

James rolls on top of him, and it’s so reminiscent of their schoolboy days that Sirius could fucking cry. He doesn’t, though. He laughs—soft and breathy and undoubtedly delighted. James grins back at him, leans to press a kiss against his jaw, and Sirius’ laugh is cut short when James grinds his hips down, when he feels the hot, hard brush of a cock against his abdomen.

Sirius doesn’t question James’ decision. He’s too scared he’ll make James come to his senses, make him stop what he’s doing, and that is the _last_ thing Sirius wants. So instead of asking if James is sure—if it’s _okay_ —he just lets the two of them blend together, lets them blur as one.

No time is wasted, no energy put toward unnecessary foreplay. Something tells Sirius that there will be time for that _later_ , and that thought alone is enough to get him grinning again, to make him curl his arms around James’ body and hold him close. He doesn’t want to let go now that he has James in his arms again, and he doesn’t—he holds on tight through their jerky, disjointed movements, doesn’t dare move away from James as their groins press together.

It’s messy and desperate and rushed, but that’s expected, Sirius thinks. Repressed desire tends to explode like that, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. James pushes their pants to the side, pulls out both of their pricks. He spits into his hand, uses a mix of saliva and precome to ease the movements of his hands as he presses their cocks together; grinding and pulling and rubbing until they’re both sweating and panting, both aching for release.

Sirius rocks into every touch, doesn’t even bother trying to stifle the quiet, breathy moans James evokes from him. He can’t stop thinking about how much he _loves_ this, how pleased he is to get to do it one more time. When he comes—finishing with a loud groan, come splattering across his chest and James’ hand and their clothes—he’s still thinking of it, is still revelling in it.

He hopes James is, too.

*

Later, when he’s showered and dressed and waiting for James to emerge from the bathroom, it all turns a little more serious, a little more real.

His leg bounces, his nerves getting the better of him. Ash falls from his cigarette to the ground, but Sirius doesn’t pay it any attention, just stares ahead; stays focused on the door.

When James does pass through, Sirius can feel his breath catch in his throat, can feel an abundance of emotions wash over him all at once. James gives him an odd look—his brow furrows, his lips quirk in a confused little smile—but then he grins properly, walks forward to reclaim Sirius’ mouth for what must be the hundredth time that morning.

“Don’t tell me you’ve started _thinking_.”

Sirius laughs—it’s little more than a huff, but it’s there. His head drops forward, forehead resting against James’ body, and he can feel James’ hand work it’s way into his hair, can feel his fingers pull at the knots. He wants to ask—about _it_ , about _them_ —but he doesn’t want to ruin the moment.

“I didn’t know,” James says eventually, starting the conversation for him. “I just thought—I didn’t think you—” He sighs, cuts himself off. “You could’ve bloody said something.”

“Idiot,” Sirius answers, and his smile is evident in his voice, even if James can’t see him. “Everyone knows.”

“Everyone?”

Sirius hums. “You should’ve heard some of Moony’s advice.”

James laughs now, too. He tugs at Sirius’ hair, makes him tip his head back so they can look at each other. “You poor thing,” he says, leaning down to kiss Sirius again. And then, “Guess we’ll have to make up for lost time.”

And _that_ —that might just be the best idea Sirius has ever seen James come up with.

*

The drive, when they make it to the car, is much more enjoyable than the previous experiences.

Sirius stares without shame, this time; his eyes focused on James nearly every second he’s not behind the wheel. James makes fun of him for it, calls him a lovesick puppy, but it’s worth it, Sirius thinks. Undoubtedly worth it.

Time passes quicker than it had before, the roadside blurring together as they zoom past, off toward home. James keeps a hand on his thigh—warm and heavy and oddly comforting, and Sirius tries to bask in the last spot of calm before they return to the chaos; to the never-ending turmoil of war.

And, if they stop every now and then for a _rest_ in the back seat—well. That’s their business.

*

It’s Sirius’ job to give Dumbledore the book once they get back. Dumbledore takes it with a smile, though he doesn’t really look at it. His focus is instead on Sirius, his eyes twinkling as he looks at him.

“I trust you enjoyed your trip?” he says, and Sirius gets the feeling that _Dumbledore’s meddling_ expands further than just some bloke up North.

He thinks about James waiting outside, and it’s impossible to stop himself from smiling. “Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> All kudos/comments/kind words are greatly appreciated!


End file.
